


A Moment

by SarieVenea



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 06:33:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1500308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarieVenea/pseuds/SarieVenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene of H/C from the season 3B finale. Set just after the final battle and before the ending scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moment

**Author's Note:**

> I just watched the season finale tonight and I felt like the symptoms Stiles was showing needed to be addressed. So I addressed them. Just a short bit of shameless brotherly love, hopefully it soothes your whumpy-loving soul!

Aiden is dead. Allison is dead. There are probably dozens of dead or dying people all over town, possibly even his mom, Deaton, the sheriff. Lydia is white and shaking, her mouth gasping at the air like she wants to suck in a breath to scream but can’t find the oxygen to make a sound. But Stiles, Scott can see his shoulders shaking, the tension in the lines of his body ready to snap. He steps forward and rests his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, his fingertips barely brushing the translucent skin, and the resulting surge of pain that shoots up his arm makes him gasp, stepping closer and wrapping his other hand around Stiles’ arm and pressing his fingers more firmly to the icy cold skin. 

“Kira, I need you to help Lydia for a moment.” Lydia pulls away from Stiles, her eyes questioning when they meet Scott only to cloud with understanding as the loss of her support causes Stiles to waver, buckling forward. Scott twists and swiftly pulls his friend into his arms, lifting him effortlessly as his eyes roll back and flutter closed. 

Kira steps to Lydia’s side and slips her arm through the redhead’s, letting the other girl clutch her hand as they step carefully down the stairs. Scott shifts and nudges until Stiles’ forehead rests against his neck, skin to skin and the werewolf can feel the pain leaching into his own veins as Stiles shudders in his arms. 

Chris Argent is on the phone as they come closer, Derek clutching at Ethan’s shoulder, the twin sitting motionless and seemingly unable to lift his eyes from his brother’s body. 

“We need a hospital. Now.” Scott can feel Stiles’ breath on his neck, tiny puffs of cold air and he can hear his friend’s heartbeat, weak and irregular. Bones jut sharply into his arms, an insubstantial fragility that Scott can feel like a twist of a knife in his chest. Stiles was dying. Still. 

“Beacon Hills Memorial was attacked, they’ve closed their emergency room.”

“Mom?” The knife in his chest twists again. 

“She’s fine, I just spoke with her. She said to bring Stiles there, that she wants you both within arms reach for the foreseeable future.” 

Scott swallows hard and curls his fingers into the fabric under his hands, stepping around the still-motionless Ethan and striding through the tunnel towards the parking lot. He can’t think about Aiden. Or Allison. Stiles is the reason she stepped into that compound tonight, the reason for it all, and he will not bury them both. He gently maneuvers until he can open the door of the jeep and carefully arranges Stiles into the front seat, fishing a blanket out of the back and tucking it around him. He reaches for the seatbelt but there is a small white hand in the way and he turns to find Lydia, her face streaked with makeup but her eyes clear and fierce and she clambers into the backseat, reaching forward to wrap her arms around Stiles and resting her head against his. 

Scott rounds the jeep and slides into the driver’s seat. The trip to the hospital is blurry, his eyes struggling to focus even as he counts every heartbeat from the seat next to him, noting every stutter, every skip as his friend’s heart seems to tire and slow. Lydia is whispering urgently, her hands rubbing and petting and clutching at Stiles’ arms, his chest, stroking his cheek, her lips pressed to his ear. 

“Come on, Stiles, don’t give up. Not now.” Scott peels his hand from the steering wheel and finds Stiles’, gripping it and letting pain flow into his own veins. They squeal into the parking lot and are swamped by flashing lights, people shouting and running, barely controlled chaos. Scott slams the jeep into park and leaps out, the belt undone and the blanket wedged under Stiles as Scott pulls him into his arms again and turns to run towards the shattered glass of the entrance. 

“Hey, you can’t come in here, we’re closed!” Someone grabs at his arm but his mom is limping towards them, her green scrubs torn and bloody, and she snaps at the protesting cop and pulls at Scott’s arm, guiding him around the debris and gurneys and streaks of blood, Lydia pressed close behind them as Melissa ushers them into an empty exam room. 

“He’s barely breathing, mom, and he’s cold. Really cold.” Scott carefully places Stiles on the gurney. His eyes are fluttering, the bones in his face sharp under the harsh light and Scott swallows hard because he looks dead.

“Get his shirt off, Scott.” Scott tugs sharply and the thin fabric gives way. Melissa frowns at the green lines on the monitor, pressing small sticky pads onto Stiles’ bared chest and attaching wires to each one. there is a sudden loud beep filling the room that mimics the gentle thump of his heart only Scott can hear and he reaches out, one hand slipping into his friend’s and the other pushing into his hair, wrapping broad and tanned over Stiles’ forehead and letting the black pain flow away again. 

“Lydia, I need you to go to the end of the hall, there is what looks like a tall steel refrigerator, a warmer. Bring as many blankets back as you can, and I need two bags of saline IV fluids. Can you remember all that?” Lydia is still pale but the look she shoots Melissa is pure Lydia Martin and Scott feels a smile creep across his face, painful and small but there. Lydia steps into the hallway and Melissa turns back to her patient, pulling more wires and tubes from the wall and the monitors and slipping them around Stiles’ arm, onto his finger, under his nose. 

She presses a thermometer into his ear and it beeps, the creases around her mouth deepening. “He’s hypothermic and his blood pressure is barely registering.” 

“Mom, what does that mean? Is he going to be okay?” Scott tightens his grip on Stiles’ hand. 

“We need to get him warm and fluids into him. I don’t know what that thing did to him, Scott, but we aren’t losing anyone else tonight.” She suddenly reaches across the gurney, her hand squeezing his, small and warm against the icy cold of Stiles’ fingers. He looks up. Her face is set, every line determined. “I swear to you, Scott, we aren’t going to lose him.” 

“Stiles?” The door slams open and Sheriff Stilinski rushes in, Scott’s dad on his heels. The sheriff is bloodied and filthy and alive and Scott’s knees go weak. He steps back to let the sheriff get to his son and keeps going until the wall slams firmly against his back and won’t let him go any further. His chest feels empty, shattered, and Lydia is suddenly there with a small contingent of people in bloodied scrubs, her arms full of warm blankets and a gleam in her eyes as she meets his gaze. 

“I screamed. They came to help.” She grins but its pale and fleeting and the room is bustling, someone pulling off Stiles’ shoes and unzipping his jeans and there are needles and tubes and through it all Stiles doesn’t react, his face slack and his fingers curled limp and unresponsive. The sheriff has planted himself at the head of the bed, his fingers smoothing back his son’s hair and refusing to look away from the motionless face. 

Scott’s knees weaken again and he realizes that he’s on the floor, Lydia pressed against his side, the empty, broken feeling scraping behind his eyes and his fingers digging into his legs. 

Time slows and he feels the warmth that is Lydia’s body leave only to be replaced with the heat of Kira, someone tucking a blanket around him and pressing a bottle of lukewarm water into his hands. He blinks and the room has quieted, his mother kneeling in front of him with a grimace. 

“Scott, honey, let’s go outside for a moment, okay?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not letting him out of my sight.” She sighs and he can feel her exchange a glance with Kira, the kitsune standing and leaving, returning a few seconds later with a chair. They prod until Scott stands and takes it, his mother gratefully sinking into another next to him. Kira stands at the door, her katana still strapped to her back and her face set and still. 

Scott turns at his mother’s soft touch on his cheek and with a jolt in his gut he realizes again that her scrubs are streaked in blood. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine, I promise. It’s healing already.” She rubs at the tear in her pants, the bandage underneath white. “Now I know how you all feel.”

Scott grabs her hand, searching her eyes but she’s right, there isn’t any pain left and her eyes are tired, but clear. He sighs again and slumps, his gaze returning to the mound of blankets obscuring Stiles. 

“How is he?” It comes out as a whisper. 

“He’s extremely dehydrated and undernourished, but the hypothermia is resolving and his blood pressure is improving. He will probably need a while to fully recover but,” her grip on his hand tightens. “I think he’s going to be fine. Physically, anyways.” She takes a deep breath and he can see her shudder, the memories of Stiles’ wide eyes brimming with tears and fear and the hope she’d felt when she pulled the tape away from his mouth warring with the cold sneer and bitter words that had yanked the breath from her chest. Scott wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, burying his face in her hair and absorbing her sobs. 

 

Time fades and jumps again, his mother pressing a kiss to his cheek and his father grabbing him in a rough hug. He blinks awake, his neck creaking as he pulls away from the pillow tucked between his head and the wall. The sheriff is still sitting at Stiles’ side, slumped forward, his head resting against his son’s hip and his hand wrapped around his arm. 

With a start, Scott realizes Stiles is awake. Clear brown eyes meet his, rimmed in red and so purple with exhaustion they look bruised, but clear and calm. 

“Stiles.” Scott breathes, untangling himself and crossing to the other side of the bed, propping his hip carefully on the edge of the mattress and slipping his hand into his friend’s. “Hey, hey. How are you feeling?” he whispers. Stiles grips back, a soft smile creasing his pale face. The look on his face is naked hope and a fond joy that makes Scott’s throat close and he can feel the tears on his cheeks but he doesn’t move to push them away. It’s Stiles. His other half, his brother. He’s alive, he’s still here, and there is nothing dark twisting behind his eyes anymore. Great gasping sobs work themselves from his chest and he knows he’s not being quiet, that he’s going to wake the sheriff but Stiles is pulling at his hand and he bends forward, pressing his face into Stiles’ chest and feeling thin arms circle his back, tangling fingers into his shirt and he wraps his arms around his friend’s shoulders and holds on. Stiles is muttering soothing and sarcastic words above his head but his hands are still clutching and Scott closes his eyes and takes in breath after breath of Stiles’ scent and his air and his words and lets the pain in his chest unfurl, cries until he feels dried out and tired again. He keeps his eyes closed, listening to Stiles’ heartbeat, and the steady, strong rhythm drowns out the echo of the moment he heard Allison’s heart stop in his arms. 

 

Melissa steps through the door a few hours later. She aches everywhere, but a hot shower, clean scrubs, and a cup of coffee have done wonders. Sheriff Stilinski looks up at her entrance, accepting the cup she holds out to him with a sad smile. Her gaze flickers over the monitors, the reassuring numbers easing the knot in her stomach. Stiles is asleep, his face relaxed and pain-free. One hand rests easily on his stomach, the other arm curled around a sprawl of limbs she recognizes as her own son, draped over the side of the bed, his back pressed along Stiles’ side. Scott is breathing slow and steady, one hand still wrapped around his friend’s wrist even in his sleep.

They will wake up soon, she knows. They will wake up and everything will crash into them again. The walls outside are still streaked with blood, people wandering with shocked eyes and pale, weary faces. The final death toll was so much lower than they’d expected, but there will be questions, and even though the oni had been witnessed by dozens of people, Stiles was the face the nogitsune was wearing and he will have to explain his part. And Allison. She’d spoken to Mr. Argent, his face lined and his eyes dull and ancient. How would they pick up those pieces? Her heart felt raw. She silently pulled a chair next to the sheriff’s and sits, sipping her coffee and watching them sleep as the sun slipped gentle fingers through the window. For now, let them have some peace. Let them all have a moment of peace.


End file.
